A Cure for Insanity
by Zighana
Summary: Tate tries to find a way to cease the psychotic thoughts and urges in his head and goes to the dark side of town to get it. (Marie/Tate pairing, one-shot)


**Cure for Insanity**

_Tate tries to find a way to cease the psychotic thoughts and urges in his head and goes to the dark side of town to find it. (Marie/Tate pairing, one-shot)_

**1994**

Tate walked the streets at night, home to the shadows. His oversized hoodie and grim face told passerby's to steer clear. His head is clouded with thoughts of death and destruction, especially violent fantasies involving his mother and her boyfriend. The thoughts kept coming, pounding at his skull, demanding he act on them. They swirl and snowball until there's painful headaches that keeps him up at night.

He wanted them to go away; they're plaguing his soul, his emotions, and his life. He loses sleep; he hurts himself to satisfy those urges, sometimes gravitating towards the neighborhood pets. When blood is spilt, those thoughts are quieted, and the feeling of overwhelming calm washes over. The only problem is that his craving comes back, stronger and desperate.

He couldn't take his problems to a psychologist; they'd pump him with enough meds to fry his brain forever. His parents? That's a laugh; they'll lock him up and throw away the key after the last sentence is uttered. The only reasonable solution is the rumored witch doctor on the dirty side of Los Angeles. She can cure any ailment, his classmates say. Perhaps she could put Tate's violent needs to rest for good. He couldn't remember her name, but the rumors he does: Louisiana-born Creole of color, over two century's years old. Lover of stitched up dolls, zombie servants, and vicious blood rituals. This Tate likes.

He finally finds her residence; some small hair salon suited for black women and black women only. The sign says 'Open' but the angry eyes of clients told him to stay away. He enters the shop defiantly, takes off his hood, and walks down the aisles of the shop, looking for any black woman that could pass for his great-great-great grandmother in age. From the varying ages, skin tones, expressions, and features, none of them screamed 'witch'. He was going to leave in disappointment when he felt a hand grab his shoulder.

"Looking for me?"

He turns around and his breath leaves him.

There she is, tall, powerful, and intimidating: skin like milk chocolate, long black hair in chunky braids down her back. Her eyes are blacker than midnight, but Tate could see the fiery pits of Hell hidden within them. Her body is in good shape; curves in all the right places, especially in her hips and bust. But the one thing that makes her stand out to Tate is her lips: plump, bitter, beautiful in the darkest shade of purple.

"Who are you?" Tate asks. The woman cocks her head to the side, eyebrow raised and lips pursed in a twist, as if in question. Finally, she smiles.

"The woman you're looking for, Tate," she answers, then disappears down the hall of her shop. Tate, bewitched and curious, follows her.

"Marie Laveau," the woman introduces as Tate enters through the bead curtain. The room is well-lit with candles, giving Tate, Marie, and the room a golden glow. He sees macabre decorations of skulls, questionable jars, books older than time itself. Voodoo dolls in varying designs and costumes hang on the walls, pinned by needles. There are cabinets of herbs, spices, and other plants, adding more to his senses. When he sees her make herself comfortable in her chair, her _throne_, Tate knows she's the real deal.

They make small talk, gliding through the pleasantries until Tate blurts out his problem, and delves into graphic detail of his addiction and sins. Marie listens, not even blinking when he goes into his obsession with the BDSM culture. Tate likens this to confession at a Catholic church; he tells of his sins, and he's forgiven and given helpful advice. When he's finished, he looks at Marie in her eyes, searching for what lurked behind her poker face.

"You want a cure for your…_urges_, correct?" she asks. Tate nods his head earnestly. Marie gets up and walks over to the mysterious cabinets, pulling out strange containers and books. He gulps when she pulls out a large blade, showing his reflection through rust and crusted blood fragments.

"So, how should we start this?"

The ritual was strange and fascinating; from the sacrificial goat to the dancing men and women, clad in all white. He had gotten so swept away from it all, that he barely even noticed a satchel placed in his palm. He looked to Marie, whose face is so close to him he could feel her breath on his lips.

"When the thoughts come, rub this satchel three times every night when you go to sleep for the next three weeks and the thoughts will cease forever. Remember to tuck it under your pillow before you go to sleep, don't open it or destroy it; lethal consequences will occur." Marie warned quickly. She ushers him out of her private chambers and back into the hair salon. The pink glow of the walls told him it is morning; _how long has he been here_, he ponders.

Tate laces up his kicks and starts walking.

The next three days, Tate has been feeling very strange. For once in three years, he's never slept so soundly; a tornado would come and he would sleep through it just fine. Next, he's _happy_; eating his breakfast and whistling a merry tune before walking to school without so much as a word to his mother. He breezes through school, but it passes him in a haze of colors and sounds. Before he knows it, he's home and in bed before five. Not one violent thought, no desperate calls for bloodshed, no yearning for flames eating the empty space known as his mother's boyfriend.

Peace.

He hasn't had peace in a long time.

But the peace gets destroyed when the thoughts rear its ugly head, giving him the worst headaches he's had in months. He rubs his satchel in earnest, taking care to make it three strokes. Just like clockwork, the thoughts are gone. But, the worst feeling takes over him.

Emptiness.

He's empty.

Tate feels a sense of unaccomplishment: what is his purpose in life? He's not the smartest kid in class, nor is he the most athletic or even artistic. Without those violent thoughts, he's a blank face in a sea of mediocrity. He has no aim in life. That rage, it gave him purpose, gave him meaning, a sense of goals that must be accomplished.

He has to go back.

He comes back to the shop; it's a rainy day, making him enter like a washed up stray, leaving puddles on the pristine linoleum. Tate doesn't care; he needs to see Marie. Now.

"Marie, Marie, _Marie_," he hollers desperately, running through the aisles, pushing away the clients that are getting in his way. When he finally sees her, he grabs her hands.

"Take it back, _take it back_," he moans out, collapsing to his knees.

"I need a reason to _live_,"

"I'm a _Voodoo Priestess_, not a _life_ _coach_," Marie says bitterly. She sits in her throne, looking down at Tate in disdain. He knows he looks pathetic right now: on his knees, sopping wet, begging her for help once more. He looks up at her, eyes full of apology and pain. Marie scoffs.

"Get up, white boy. Your hung face won't help me none," she barks. Tate stands at attention.

"You should've thought this through before coming to me. I thought you wanted those thoughts and urges to cease."

"I do, Marie…"

"_Mistress_, Tate. You don't deserve to call me by my first name."

"_Mistress,_ I do. But I realize that without those thoughts, I have no reason to live on. Just staying in that _fucking_ house, with my _mother_…I _hate_ that bitch!" Tate throws a random jar at the wall in rage, shattering on impact. Marie slams him against the wall with her powers, making his body contort into a painful position that makes him scream in agony.

"Don't go throwing things you can't replace, especially if it's _my shit_," Marie says. Tate's screams and whimpers are music to her ears. It's the least he could do for giving her a migraine today; who does he think he is, barging into _her_ place of business, demanding _her_ help? He's got balls, she'll give him that. Feeling satisfied, she makes his body relax with the flick of her wrists and watches Tate gather himself and pop some joints back into place.

"I'm _not_ your therapist, I'm _not_ your miracle worker, and I'm _not_ your mother. You come to me for help, and I do it in my line of work. You should've done your homework about what it is you want, and what you're willing to risk getting it. You did this to yourself, not me." Marie looks at Tate, whose back is to her.

"_I'm empty_," Tate admits.

"Do you know what it's like to feel like there's a hole inside of you you can't fill, no matter how hard you try? A piece of me is _dead_, Mistress. _Dead_,"

"Yes, I know that feeling. I've felt it so many times it's welcomed like an old friend." Marie says wistfully. She gives another view of Tate and feels her heart cave in. He truly needs her.

"Tate," she begins. She places her hand on his chin, making him turn to face her.

"How," she sighs.

"How would you like to work for me?"

Eight weeks have passed since Marie offered Tate work in her hair salon. He sweeps the hair off the floor, supplies the salon with hair magazines (with softcore BDSM for himself on break), keeps the clients company by listening to their gossip and telling corny jokes. He does his work dutifully and energetically; any excuse staying out of the house he'll give his full attention to.

The clientele were iffy about letting a new face into their circle, but otherwise accepted him; he's always seen with Marie. One of the clients, Claire Johnson, would joke, "_He clings to her like a lost puppy_." Though it was said in jest, it was true.

Tate didn't hang around anyone but Marie, following after her like a second shadow. He acts as though if he's away from her, the world would swallow him whole. Even Marie has become aware of his newfound dependency on her: everything he does, he does it in hopes for her approval. Every kind word, every encouragement, every ounce of attention Marie has been giving Tate, he greedily takes it and begs for more.

_He wants that motherly role out of me_, Marie thinks, as she flat-irons Claire's hair with ease.

How long has it been since she was a mother? So many years have passed she lost count. The last time she had played the maternal role was in 1927 to a teenaged mother who died of pneumonia, leaving her newborn baby in Marie's care. Her 'son' Billy had grown to be a strapping young man until he was lynched in 1942. Marie takes that tragedy with a grain of salt.

"Girl, you burning my hair!" Claire cries out. Marie quickly removes her flat iron and checks the damage.

"Girl, your hair is fine. Just some of them strands didn't make it," Marie says, spraying the damaged piece with olive sheen.

"You alright? I know if my girl ever burns hair Hell done froze over! What's up?"

"None of your damn business,"

"Alright. You don't have to tell me. I think it's that…Tank? Taint?"

"_Tate_."

"Yeah, Tate." Claire nods her head in agreement.

The hours flew by until every client left and Marie held up the 'Closed' sign, ending the day.

"Good work today, Tate," Marie begins, quickly regretting it. Tate drinks it in, his eyes bright and starry.

"Thank you, Mistress," he replied, grinning from ear to ear. He's sweeping the floor, for the fifth time today, but Marie says nothing of it.

"How's school?"

"Great. Got an A on my Biology test, finally pulled my D up in Trigonometry, and I might make it in English,"

"That's great news,"

"Yeah, I'm proud of myself. I even made some friends."

"Oh?"

"Stephanie, Kevin, Chloe, Amir, and Kyle; they think I'm cool working with the great _Marie Laveau_," he chuckles, shaking his head.

"They're going to be people that will make this world better. Well, not Kevin, but the rest of them, they have potential. They're not losers sitting around doing nothing, letting their life pass them by."

Marie sighs deeply. She hates when he gets into those depressive speeches of self-pity. She puts her hand on his shoulder and kisses the top of his head.

"Sleep on it; you have a busy schedule tomorrow." And she leaves, taking Tate's breath with her.

Tate lies in his bed, tossing and turning. He hasn't had a good sleep in days, thoughts of his employer plaguing his mind.

Ever since he's been working with Marie, that emptiness has been filled with her presence. He had been cured of his insanity, but the side effect is his obsession with Marie, his mistress. He remembers every touch, every word, every gentle peck of her lips. He catalogs it in his memory banks, using them to calm him when his demons come to haunt him. He has to have her scent and her touch so badly he'll steal pieces of her garments to hold and savor when he's antsy. Marie is giving him the maternal attention he desperately craves. She fills the space his mother left empty, it makes her its surrogate mother. He feels a need to protect her; be by her side like a loyal guard dog, protecting against anyone that dares harm her. He needs her with him constantly; the voices and thoughts die whenever she's around, magic be damned. She keeps him sane, focused, calm.

She is his medicine.

He's aware his dependency on her is unhealthy but he can't help himself. She's done more for him in a week than his mother had in seventeen years of his existence. She gave him purpose: reforming him, making him work hard for his education and future, cleansing him of his past mistakes and troubles. He's now a person with feelings, not a hollow shell that lives through violence and blood, numb to the world around him. He wonders if this is what love feels like: this burning desire for a woman's presence, feeling so strongly that it's a tragedy when the woman doesn't notice. He wonders if what he's feeling for his mistress is truly love; he thinks so. He knows his feelings for her have evolved from a schoolboy crush. She makes him better himself, makes him _care_.

She humanized him.

And she made him _love_ her.

He's fucked.

Two weeks had passed since Tate finally mustered up the courage to find Marie and tell her his feelings. He leaves his house, bouquet of flowers in his grasp, and walks the streets with a merry tune. He rehearsed everything he was going to say in his head countless times, especially every scenario that might happen between him and her. When he reached the doors of the salon, his heart sank.

Marie's gone, and took the salon with her: the place is stripped bare of the workers, the furniture, the magic. It's another empty space that is staring Tate back in the face.

How could Marie leave so suddenly, without telling him goodbye?

Disbelief and betrayal heavy in his heart, he broke the lock that kept the shop closed and barged inside. _She's here_, he tells himself. She's going to come out and tell him that he's wrong, that she never left without telling him. The surrounding darkness and quiet told him otherwise; it's obvious she's not here. When he finds the room that started it all, he sits and cries with grief.

She left him without saying goodbye. She betrayed him.

His tears lead to screams and fits of rage, punching walls and cursing the woman he loved, needed, wanted. When he tires out, he lies on his side in the corner, staring at nothingness.

"If you were going to leave me behind, had the decency to fucking tell me," he says to the darkness. Hours had passed, and Tate knew it was time to leave, but part of him didn't. There was still a faint aroma of her, memories that plagued his mind and emotions. He gives it one last look, hears Marie's laughter and smells her fragrance for the last time, and he curtly exits, never looking back.

When he came home, he bolted to his room and slammed the door. He plays Nirvana as loud as he could, to drown out his ache. He's about to lie in his bed when he notices a strange lump inside his covers. Curious, he pulls off the covers and sees a doll, a doll that closely resembles the voodoo dolls that are pinned all over Marie's walls. And on that doll is a note attached. Hopeful, Tate grabs the note and reads it closely.

_Tate,_

_When you get this message, this means I've packed my bags and went back to New Orleans. I should've said goodbye, but I ran out of time. But I did leave behind this doll. This is a doll of me. Whenever you get lonely, or angry, hold it close to your heart, I'm connected to the doll so when you hug her, you're hugging me. _

_I want you to know that I do care for you; you've come a long way and forever have a place in my heart. I care for you like you're my son. But I have to keep my distance because I don't want you hurt for being with me, so I left. I know you're upset I'm gone but I will be back one day, you have to be patient. Wait for me, Tate. I will come back for you. All it takes is time. _

_~ Marie Laveau_

The slight whiff of perfume and lipstick kiss seals the deal for Tate. He picks up the doll, hurt etched in his eyes. He holds the doll close to him, so close he fears he'll crush it. Within seconds, arms wrap around him, encasing him in warmth. He smells her perfume, hears the soft rumble of her voice, feels the chunky braids scratch his face. He sighs deeply, releasing the doll from his vice grip. A lone tear escapes his eyes, followed by fresh ones. If she wants him to wait for her to come back, he will unquestioningly.

Even if it takes him an eternity.

**Present**

Violet enters the attic for old records when she notices Tate crouching, whispering to himself. Curious but hell-bent on avoiding him, she ponders the benefits of being nosy when she hears,

"I've waited so long, Marie. Please, come to me. I've been waiting. _I've been waiting_."

When she hears soft sobbing, Violet leaves him be.

**~Fin~**


End file.
